Blue Collar Balls
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Some down and dirty man on man Matticho smut. Yup, that's what it is. Cameo by SCSA. Don't like, don't read. OST.


_**A/N: Matticho w/cameo of SCSA. It's AU but just try it, it's not awful. This is not the usual way in which I write CJ for those of you who read my stuff, you know. At first I was a little upset that compared to my usual version of CJ, it was kind of ooc--but now that it's done, I really like it anyway. Just say, I have explored a new side of CJ. ALSO—language and views expressed by the people in this fic are their views. Just because I write it doesn't mean I agree or disagree with it. The way the ppl think, speak, etc is because I wanted to get across those specific type of people and you will understand what I mean while reading. Thanks!**_

Blue Collar Balls

Fuck, I hate coming to this place day in and day out. I mean, who doesn't get sick and damn tired of work? I guess it's a requirement or something. But this place, I think hell burped it up. I mean, maybe if we got paid a little more than 'just making ends meet' it would be a little more bearable, but that's not happening any time soon. There's no union in this place anymore, and basically that means we get screwed every which way and in every raw hole possible. Fucking parasites, those guys who wear their almighty suits and sit behind a clipboard and desk all day—like they've ever done a day of hard labor. I wish I didn't have to be here every day breaking my back for "The Man" but that's just how it's worked out. I know I'm gonna keep tying my sore feet into my scuffed work boots each day and trudge back to this place to give up a piece of my bitter soul—and probably a certain bird on the way in through the security doors. Hell, it's not like that big man with his pretty shoes up on his desk will ever see it. The only one bound to see my fuck-you salute is just some fat rent-a-donut with his lidded eyes on the cameras.

You know, I guess I shouldn't ram this place completely into the ground. There are a few things in this factory that make it worth coming to work, I guess. Namely, those are just the guys I work with. We've got this set group of us that take over the best table at break and lunches, you know, the 'senior' guys. We're the ones who have taken the most shit for the most years, and still stay to get more shoveled onto us. We sit and shoot the bull when we have the little free time to do so, find new ways to cuss up the bosses, talk about the beers we want to drink and the pussy we'd like to fuck. Time to vent for the working Joes, that's all it is, over some lunchmeat and cold coffee.

There's one particular guy who really stands out to me though. He's been here a good while too. He sits with us, but a lot of times he doesn't have nothing much to say, no dirty lines to toss in, no gripe to air, not too much from him. Sometimes you can get him to talk about hunting, the occasional crazy weekend, or his brother. He seems like kind of a hick, a country guy at heart, and I bet he'd be the type to have some kind of animal head trophy hooked up on his wall. As for his brother, I remember that guy. He got hired on here for a real short time. Everybody talked about him right off—I mean he looked real out of place stepping in here with piercings hanging out of everywhere, and a mane of rainbow hair tied back. None of us really expected the kid to last long, some of the days he came in he seemed pretty fucked up, and we were right. It wasn't too long before he stopped clocking onto our shift, and eventually we had it found out that he'd been canned because of failing a 'random' drug screen. According to Matt though, he mentioned just lately, that his little brother got a job with a family friend doing tats, and that's probably more his kind of job and his kind of people anyway, if you get what I mean.

I guess maybe I shouldn't talk that way, seeing as how you could say I'm somewhat of a wolf in sheeps clothing…or maybe a sheep in wolves clothing. That's how I have to be though, and you'd know what I mean if you lived here. See, it's not a real big town here. Most of the men end up married pretty young, a few kids, and with a bust-your-ass job. You know, typical blue-collar, average jack, good ol' boy, material is most of what you find around here. It gets kind of engrained into you I suppose, a way to act, think, to base your outlook on life, everything. I guess it's really pretty close minded when you stop to think about it. You marry your high school sweetie, especially if you knocked her up, you always vote conservative, show up in church every Sunday (and always in the same pew, damn it move your ass out of my seat!), demand your right to enjoy a cold one and a warm dinner on the table after work, teach your kid to toss a football and catch a baseball, and hang one of those decorative ball sacks off the back of your truck—because you gotta have a good truck—and because we're a classy bunch like that. American as apple-fucking-pie, that's what I am, I guess.

Trouble is, that one guy I mentioned, the one who doesn't talk so much? He's a constant reminder to me of the one thing that makes me different from the other guys in here. I try to be discrete about it, hell I have to, 'cause I wouldn't want any stupid talk to get going.

I've watched him more than I should, when I think he and no one else is paying attention. Actually, that's what I'm doing right now. He's gone over to one of the vending machines to feed in a ratty dollar and fish out an over-priced bottle of cola. His back is to me and I can't help but squirm in my chair as he bends over to snag the bottle from the slot of the machine. That ass of his looks just fuckable in those Carhartt jeans, one of the back pockets bumped up with the familiar rectangle shape of a wallet stuffed in, although I could think of something better to stuff back there. Yeah, that's right, I'm one of those. I mean, I'm not…what you call out in the open about it. I can't be, but that doesn't stop me from getting what I need, when I need it. I've learned if you watch so carefully, you can pick up on whose like you, trying to hide the same as you are, but wanting so badly the same taboo thing.

He straightens up and heads towards the table. I feel my cheeks heating a little and pretend to care more about my bologna sandwich than the swish of his hips as he moves. He's so damn gorgeous, his plain black t-shirt clinging to his thick waist and broad chest, the sleeves tight around his muscled arms. If I'm not careful, the tables gonna start to tip, and then I really will have all eyes on me, which wouldn't help my goal of being unnoticed.

I shift again in my chair and stuff some of my lunch into my mouth. I've got to do something to keep from moaning as my thoughts all but run away with me at what I could do to that guy. I dare to glance over at him, giving him a small nod, before I pull the bill of my company logo hat down a little. His dark eyes narrow at me so slightly, and he gives his head a little shake, attempting to dislodge one of the coal curls that's fallen over his forehead instead of staying tied back with the rest. The errant spring didn't move any though, it just stayed stuck to his sweaty brow. I'd love to just throw him up on the lunch table—sending Hunter's always present coffee thermos splattering over the gray stained tiles, as I fucked his brains out. Screw standards, morals, company policy, and the object of my lusts all in one shot, after all, that is the common sense way to do it: kill as many birds with one stone as you can.

"Chris?"

"Huh?" I almost coughed that mouthful of sandwich down instead of chewing and swallowing first. It was just Austin, he'd nudged me and he had that gleam in his eye that told me he was about to lay on me some good down and dirty piece of chit-chat.

"You hear about Mark's old lady?" Steve grinned, popping off the plastic top of his oversized Igloo cooler. "That cunt Michelle, I done heard he caught her screwing around with his brother. You know, that ugly, bald, sumbitch with the fucked up eye?"

"I'm not surprised. She's been a whore since days of old—only freshman to ever spread 'em for the whole Senior football team all in one night, including that creepy coach they had. Who hasn't she fucked or sucked?" I kept up conversation with Austin, since he'd started it, but I was still watching my secret flame from the corner of my eye. "What was it everybody used to call the coach, Bitchoff?"

"Yup, and then he got shit out of the school system for gettin' caught with his pants around his ankles in the girls locker room with none other than Mayor McMahon's precious little princess knelt before his almighty cock. Hell yeah! You remember?"

I laughed.

"Oh yeah, I remember that. The details are a little fuzzy though, which princess was it, Stephanie or Shane?"

That got Steve to laughing loud and hearty right along with me.

"What a fag, that Shane kid." Steve finished, shaking his head. "He's up in Washington lobbying for those queers to have 'rights' like us normal folks—what a crock of shit. I can tell you where all those people are gonna end up, and where they can shove their fucking 'rights' crap."

"Tell 'em to shove something up there and they might be more than willing." I put in, smirking a little when Austin's face twisted into a grimace of disgust.

"Don't get too graphic Irvine, I'm trying to eat my lunch here damn it!"

The subject was dropped, and I half-heartedly nibbled at my bread crusts while I watched Matt sip his Pepsi. Ooh, the joy of Cola, baby. I wanted to see him get down to that very last swig at the end, because then he'd tilt his head back, and that expanse of perfectly kissable neck would be showed off. That column of smooth skin would just look beautiful with marks all over it, and his chocolate curls down from that ponytail, floating around his face like a dark angels' halo. I had to have him; that fact was made clearer to me by the passing of each wearisome twelve hour shift.

Steve brought me out of my thoughts, his large hand pointing to the clock on the wall behind me.

"Time to go, Mongoose." Mongoose, I hadn't been called that since high school. Steve got up from his chair, sliding it back noisily on its feet. He gave the bill of my cap a whack as he passed to shove his cooler onto a shelf.

I followed him out of the break room, hands shoved into my pockets, as I picked Matt out of the bunch heading back. Man, breaks are never long enough, and then it's back to our machines, hot-ovens, palettes, stacking, wrapping, lifting, all the good stuff. By the end of the day half of us are limping from the blisters and fallen arches, and half of us are slumped over like Neanderthals because of our busted backs. We look like a real pretty party, I'm sure.

Clock-out seemed like it wouldn't come soon enough. It's always like this, but today it was even worse. Each minute seemed to drag the fuck on, until I was sure the time was just not going to change at all, that it was just forever stuck on one damning increment. But finally we were let free of our chains and like soldiers waiting for rations we stood in line to swipe our badges and leer at the time clock—fuck you, I've beaten you for one more day. Then it would just leer back at us with its keypad and digital screen—fuck you too Badge Number 18124 Christopher K. Irvine, and see you tomorrow. I bet after we're all clocked out for the day, the little beast just hangs there on the wall and laughs.

Outside it was getting dark already. The sky was graying up with the shadows of an early evening. It was fall, and that means daylight hours pretty much pass us by while we're in the guts of the factory. The mornings and evening pretty much look the same, except in the evenings the building gets to stare at your ass walking away. Speaking of which, my eyes were on a backside too. Now, I know I'm going to seem more than creepy here, but like I said I had to have this guy. I made sure to park next to him this morning, and leave my headlights on. Maybe it seems desperate, but I'd like to say it was just a stroke of genius. My Bronco won't start, Matt's parked next to me, he can jump start me, then I can jump him. See? Pure fucking genius, and I'm stuck here as a grunt in this plant, figure that out.

I went through the motions, got into my Bronco, tried to fire her up, and then lit up a line of curses when she just coughed instead of roaring to life. Matt was about to duck into his truck, with its cammo seat covers and gun rack.

"Hey, Hardy!" I called, getting back out and jogging around the front of his Ram. "Hey Junior, I'm sorry to be a bother I know you want to get the hell out of here just as much as the rest of us, but I've got a little problem over here. I went and left my fucking lights on, and she's dead. I've got cables and everything, you think you can help me out?"

Matt climbed out of his truck.

"Sure, no problem. I'm not in that big of a hurry anyway. Just have the dog to go home to."

We hooked up, and there it was. While my battery was being charged (yeah, in more ways than one) the lot was quickly emptying out. I leaned up against my girl with a cigarette hung between my lips, as I watched Matt closely.

"Hey Hardy," He looked up at me, his head formerly bowed as he looked over what was under my hood. "Smoke?"

I offered the pack to him, but he shook his head, a couple of those pretty stray curls bouncing. They still looked damp from work, he was on one of those hellacious ovens today. Those things are hot enough to give the devil a heat stroke. I bet if I pulled Matt in close for a kiss, the back of his neck would be all sweaty and grimy from the days work. I bet the rest of him was too, and actually that t-shirt seemed to be stuck closer to him than it was in the break room at lunch. I think the chest was darkened too, with a sticky V. Pretty soon I hoped to have him peeled out of those clothes, and fuck was he making me horny.

"So Hardy, you haven't got you a woman yet? Just the dog?"

"Not really. Women are too much trouble." He said, his shapely lips curving into a small smile.

"Oh, you know they are. I'm tied down to one, I can tell you right now how much trouble they are."

"You and the woman have a brood of Irvine's at home?"

I shook my head, and pulled out my wallet. I hung my smoke between my lips and flipped open the wallet, showing him a picture of my wife and I from our younger days, when we still smiled in our photos.

"Nope. Just like you, just me and the dog." I grinned, stuffing my wallet back into my jeans. "Only I bet yours listens to you a lot better than she minds me." I put in, and Matt laughed.

I let the conversation go quiet for a bit. We both just stood there, me working on my cigarette, and the both of us listening to the hum of Matt's engine.

"So, you don't have a woman in your life Junior, but you've gotta have some action, right? You have a boyfriend?" His eyes narrowed defensively and I couldn't help but smirk.

"What kind of a question is that? Do you?" He barked back, his whole demeanor completely giving him away.

"I like to keep things a little simpler than that." I said lowly.

I moved so the steel ends of our boots were toe to toe. I took a last long drag on what was left of my cigarette, dropped the butt to the ground, and blew the trail of smoke into Matt's face. Through the white puff of smoke I could see his dark eyes dancing, and he was chewing at his lip. I waited for him to say something back, but he was silent.

"Guess I better see if she'll start up for me now." I said, leaving him standing there.

I climbed back into my Bronco. I twisted the key, and she rumbled to life. I watched Matt as he went to turn off his Ram, and then went about unhooking the cables. He came around and opened the door to my backseat, dumped the cables onto the floorboard, and then climbed in after them, shutting the door. Without a word I shut the Bronco down too. I know I should have left it running to charge the battery, but there were more important things on my mind. I climbed over the center and into the back, next to Matt. Our eyes locked together, sparks seeming to fly between the heated gazes.

"How do you like it?"

"Rough, hard, and dirty." He answered, his fingers going to a tight chain necklace that was practically tattooed to his neck.

"We'll get along just fine then, because that's how I give it."

I pinned him with his back down on the seat, and climbed on top. I crashed my lips to his, forcing my tongue in, taking his breath away and barely giving him any chance to respond back to it. His tongue made attempt to play with mind a couple of times, but I forced it back down and griped his chin hard. He tasted so damn good, better than I had imagined in my warped little fantasies. Beneath me his chest heaved, pressing our bodies closer together with each struggled breath. My other hand snaked between our heated bodies and found the crotch of his jeans. I squeezed there hard, and he moaned into my mouth, and his teeth scraped against mine. I worked him hard through the thick denim material and I could feel him quickly responding and rising to an impressive attention. Maybe I'd have to stop calling him Junior, and think of a more suiting nickname.

Finally I unlatched our mouths, and he gasped for air into his aching lungs. His eyes were on fire for me, his cheeks burned a sexy color of red, and his lips were kiss swollen and purplish. He opened his mouth and started to say something, and before he could I told him to shut up, that I didn't have him here to hear his mouth. Moments later, he opened it again, but this time with a cry of pleasure as my fingers tore the band from his hair, ripped some of those curly locks away with it. His t-shirt was soaking through the front already with the wetness of his responsive body, and that's what went next. I peeled the shirt off, tugging it up roughly over his head. His olive-tan skin glistened, the muscles of his chest tight, the little nubs on them hard, his rounded belly rising and falling with each deep breath—so fucking gorgeous. He smells like ripe sweat mingled with the piney scent of his deodorant, just like a man should.

I grabbed the pendant on that close chain of his and twisted it, causing the links to pinch and bite the flesh of his neck. His eyes rolled, obviously enjoying the action. I pulled it a little tighter and tilted his head back further against the seat to expose more of his neck which was soon full of my teeth marks. He tasted so good and dirty in my mouth, and the sounds he made as his strong body writhed beneath me was nothing short of slutty. It made my aching cock twitch, hearing from his lips what I was doing to him, and knowing how badly he needed me to just fuck him raw. His hips came up off the seat, his back arced, and that straining member tenting the fly of his jeans pressed up against mine, wringing a grunt from me.

I sat on his waist and reached down to the floorboard where I kept a tool box. Any and every guy keeps a tool box in his truck, it's just my tools (most of which ironically my wife has gotten me over years of Christmases) don't get used to fix very much. But I do use them.

I could feel Matt watching me as I picked a toy from the box. His eyes widened a little when he saw what was in my hand, but the expression wasn't fearful, just excited. I touched the cold metal to his neck, teasing him as I dragged it slowly over the simmering-slick skin, and over one of those deliciously perky nipples. He groaned out and rolled his hips again, his hard imprisoned cock making itself well known to me. I pinched one of his nipples between my fingers and tightened the jaws of the wrench around it until it was clasped tight, the sensitive skin coloring into a dark bruise. In my other hand was a pair of pliers, the kind with the long needle nose. I opened its mouth as wide as it would go and scraped the sharp points over his flesh leaving long, red scratches. He was whining out for me, but I was still determined to take my time, and make it last while I had my chance. I teased his unclamped nipple with the pliers, tweezing at it, grabbing and pulling, torturing it until it was raw and swollen and the cab of the truck was filled with his pleas and cries, and his lines of blissful curses. I latched the teeth of the pliers to the bothered and throbbing nipple, and turned the screw at the handle, effectively clamping it there, same as the other one.

My hands moved down, ready to free Matt from his jeans and wrap my hands around that big, aching cock of his. My hands found that he was a step ahead of me, when they wrapped instead around Matt's hand that was tightly griped to his shaft. I grabbed his wrist and pinned his arm up over his head.

"No." I barked at him.

He worked his mouth wordlessly, fighting back another moan. Part of me wanted to stop the torture and just fuck the hell out of him, make that Bronco rock and roll. I just didn't want to give it up too soon though, 'cause then I'll I'd have left was to turn her on, and drive home to my wife who would be sitting on the couch in a pair of leggings, showing every god-awful roll she'd acquired, and watching re-runs of fucking M*A*S*H.

I kept his hand up above his head while I reached down to and picked up an orange coil. I have everything in the back of my truck, I swear it. I'd meant to take the extension cord back into the garage, but never had gotten around to it. Now I was glad I'd forgotten about it, because big boy Matt was going to get tied up with it.

I wrapped it good and tight around his wrists, looping it and tugging at it. It bit into his flesh and muscle, some of it was caught between the loops of cord, which were bound so tightly that the tanned color drained from those pinched parts leaving them bleached white. I tied his wrists behind his head and wrapped the cord around his head and face, the loops gnawing into his cheeks and forehead. One found its way between his teeth, as his mouth was hung slightly open, and I tugged it taut stretched his lips into a forced grimace, the orange bondage chewing into the pulled corners of his mouth. The last of the cord snaked around the strong column of his neck, already dawning rings of teeth marks up and down it. I tied the ends up in a way that would keep the bonds from coming undone, and yet kept them loose enough so he could breathe, and so I could pull on the ends if I wanted and tighten the choke.

Matt was still trying to spew out line after line of whimpered please and curses but with the way his mouth was stretched and pulled, they all came out as intelligible moaning and whining. My hands were actually trembling, from as much as he had me worked up. Both of us were on the edge of coming unglued, and it took a lot for me not to blow right there—in my jeans like that. He just seemed made for me, and made for this kind of thing. He looked so perfect bound and marked up like that and the high it gave him was written all over his face and in the twisting, shuddering movements of his body. It was like an electricity passing from him to me, and then back again. I couldn't take it anymore.

I pulled his shoes off and tossed them up front, then worked his jeans and briefs the rest of the way off of him, and tossed too. Those were followed by mine and I bit into my lip as my aching erection bobbed up against my belly. Matt already had his legs spread for me, we were both good and ready. I didn't prepare him, and I had the feeling he didn't want me to anyway. I forced my way past the tight ring of muscle, not waiting for it to loosen or adjust, and just shoved my way in until I was completely consumed in his deep heat. My mewls and curses were matching Matt's needful sounds. He moved his legs around, propping them up on my shoulders, and I started hammering him for all I was worth. He was practically curled up like one of those pill bugs as I fucked him like I'd never fucked before. His knees were almost touching up against his shoulders. There was even no more coherent thought, no more words to be formed, just the ragged panting of our desperate breaths together. I managed to reach around him with one hand and grab the loose ends of the cord and pull them. The choking, coughing sounds that he made sent a tremor-like shiver through my body and into Matt's. His eyes were lulling back as he bucked and writhed in the seat. I was so close and trying to hold on so badly, everything inside of me was so tight and hot and ready to explode. I tugged the cord tighter still, and Matt's back curved up from the seat and with a strangled gasp he came hard, his spunk spurting onto his chest in a beautiful opaque stain. I let go of the cord and underneath me he gulped in big lungfuls of air as I rammed him a couple more times, before losing it myself. I expected to see my load blow off the back of his head with the force, but as we both stilled everything was still intact.

I was dizzy and trembling with the orgasm that had ripped through me. With unsteady hands I went to untying Matt. His honey eyes were glazed as my fingertips brushed over the abused skin, crisscrossed over his neck, face, and wrist with the zebra-like welts and bruises. I dropped the coil of cord to the floor and then the pliers and wrench. Matt's hands were shaking worse than mine were, and they moved unsurely to his chest and barely touched the swollen bulbs before drawing in a pained breath between his teeth.

"Ah, son of a fucking bitch!" He spat, his words hoarse. "Fuck. I don't know if I can feel my hands or not…" He mumbled, still a bit lost from the high of it all. I took one of his quaking hands in mine and rubbed at it, and the striped wrist, getting the circulation back.

"Better?"

"You…you…" He tried to think of how to say whatever it was, but in the end could only sum it up in that same one word. "Ooh, fuck."

I started to work on his other hand and wrist, massaging gently.

I love the smell of aftersex.

"Chris…" Matt croaked out finally. "Anytime your battery dies, look me up. I'd be glad to help out a friend."

I smiled down at him, at his sweaty, beautiful, marked up face.

"I'll keep that in mind." I said, moving away from him to give him some space, and let him piece himself back together. I leaned back in the seat, and lit up a cigarette. So good.

He finally got himself somewhat together, and sat up in his seat. He leaned over the front, fishing for his clothes, and managed to get into his boots and jeans. He wadded his t-shirt up in his hand, and used it to mop at his brow.

"I…I better get home to my dog." He said, wrapping his hand around the door handle, and stepping out. I finished wiggling back into my shoes and jeans too.

"Mhm, me too." I gave him a wink, and climbed up into the front seat. I watched him move around the front of my Bronco through the darkness that had fallen, and over to his truck.

I found myself looking forward to work the next day. Hell, maybe I'd throw him up on the assembly belt and we'd put a show on for the whole fucking company to see. Ha, I don't think the bosses would appreciate that. But then again, you never know. Maybe I'll just leave the headlights on again.


End file.
